In the morning Evan told himself it had been a dream. Charlie wasn’t really on his sofa, he hadn’t shown up after all this time, he didn’t ask Evan for another chance.
And he sure as hell didn’t say he loved him. That had been a dream, surely.
How long had Evan waited to hear those words again? His mind was a sick and twisted thing, to dream up something like Charlie after six long years of trying to forget about him.
But just in case it wasn’t a dream, just in case Charlie was on his sofa downstairs, Evan stayed in bed. The last thing he needed to see was his friend sleeping. That would make it real. He didn’t think he could see Charlie asleep and not touch his skin, not kiss his lips, not want to take him up on his offer of just one more try.
Through his closed door, he could hear
